


Three Course Meal

by monochromatic



Series: Story Time with Ari and Ven [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Incest, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave and Dirk try something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Course Meal

Looking at pictures of Dave as a teenager, no one would’ve predicted that he would grow up into a world-famous director, let alone a style icon. Hell, just a peek inside his closet should smash his reputation to bits, although _Rolling Stone_ and _GQ_ and once, even _Playboy_ have continued to humor his proclivity for the gaudy and grandiose. Dave’s Inferiority Complex is the stuff of national tabloids.

You don’t think Dave is nearly classy enough for _Playboy_.

The floor underfoot trembles with a bassline that can only be described as vulgar, the kind of primal thrum that shakes Dave’s door, rattling the handle. When you were a kid — not so many years ago — this was as good as if Dave’d hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on his doorknob. These days, you’re welcome enough that you readily discard any such warnings.

You weren’t prepared, though.

“Should I order take out ton— _holy shit_.”

Dave isn’t facing you, but rather, the thick, drawn drapes. So much bare skin would normally be an invitation, but you’re alienated by this, the spectacle of Dave in black nylons, fastening the delicate clip on a heel that looks like it could sever your spinal cord.

“Oh.”

True to form, he recovers himself enough to face you with a smug smirk and a hollow facsimile of  dignity. It isn’t as if you just stumbled upon a very private and personal hobby or anything. “Wasn’t really thinking of dinner, yet.”

“No.” You gulp. God, he has nice thighs, accentuated by the tender embrace of sheer lace. “I’ll just…If you wanted to be alone, why didn’t you lock the door?” you mumble, flustered.

Dave is advancing on you. “Please, Dirk.” He picks something up, and at first the shape seems foreign to you, but quickly you recognize it and,

 _Goddamn_.

“It’s convenient that you happened by,” he says conversationally, turning down his music. “I can do this part myself, but,” he fits the corset over his body, “it’s more fun with a friend.”

Robotically, your hands find the strings of the corset without fuss from your brain, which is currently short-circuiting. “F-friend?” you ask, watching as your fingers work seemingly of their own accord. You almost wonder if this is some mean trick, if your brain designed a very intricate, hyper-realistic hallucination. Maybe you’re dreaming. This has to be a wet dream.

Dave’s unshaven skin disappearing under smooth satin protests this idea.

“Oh, you know how I feel about the ‘B’ word,” he scoffs.

 _Yeah_ , you think scathingly, _it’s illegal_. These words remain cached inside your brain, though, as your mouth is a little preoccupied with hanging open while you admire your brother’s strong back giving under the force of the corset — under the force of your fingers, however indirectly.

“Tighter,” he growls.

Your breath hisses out from between your teeth. Your skin is prickling with heat. “Dave, fuck.”

“Just a minute, at least let me enjoy myself first.” Once you’ve finished, he walks away, and you can’t help but stare after him; you want to get on your knees and eat him, forget dinner. From his dresser, he pulls measuring tape. Admiring himself in his big mirror, he takes it round the narrowest part of his waist, and sighs theatrically. “Twenty-four inches,” he declares.

You’re salivating.

“You know,” he says teasingly, batting his lashes at you, “years ago, I could get it to nineteen.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s sporting a semi, outlined in silk, and you are dumbstruck.

“The lesson here,” he grabs you by the collar of your shirt, undoubtedly stretching it in his stone grip, “is don’t have kids.”

“Jesus, that’s…” Not funny. Not even factually correct. But Dave can say whatever he wants as far as you’re concerned. As long as he’s in lingerie and pulling you into his lap like that, as long as his teeth stay on your skin. “Please don’t?” you squeak when you feel him start to suck on your neck.

“Pretty please?”

“Okay,” you sigh.

Dave tortures you slowly, sucking mark after mark into your skin, stripping you down in his lap, his big hands drifting aimlessly along your body. His nails are perfectly manicured, and they scrape against your skin, eliciting a full-body shiver. He squeezes your ass and pulls you down onto him, then whispers into your ear about how hot you are, how strong you’ve gotten, all the things you hope to hear.

Then he says something...you did not expect.

“God, I wanna’ dress you up.”

You gulp, nervous. Nervous is a new feeling for you. Your heart is pounding and you’re sweating bullets and it’s as if an electrical fire has started beneath your skin. It’s pleasant in the most maladjusted way. “You want to...to play dress-up with me?” You meant to tease him, but the tremor in your voice cheapened it.

“You would look so good in one of these,” he says, pointing to his own corset. “Mmm, and a pair of stilettos. You’re not really ready for that, though,” he laments, nipping your clavicle. “Start you off with kitten heels. Whad'ya say?”

“Yeah,” you answer immediately, “whatever you want, Dave.”

He grins, terrifying. “Whatever I want, huh?”

The two of you get to your feet — Dave more elegantly, even in heels — and move to his closet. He reveals a fake back, behind the endless monotony of his suit jackets and slacks. And behind the fake back, there is a veritable treasure trove of lingerie: corsets of all varieties and makes, stockings of all lengths and textures, with pretty garters and lovely belts.

You’re a bit weak in the knees, suddenly.

“Shoes are the most important,” Dave says, stepping past you and into the closet. “I’ll compose entire outfits around a pair of good shoes.” He removes several boxes from a shelf and sets them on the floor. “Sit, let’s see what fits.”

Completely naked and feeling rather vulnerable, you perch on Dave’s bed while he kneels before you, neglecting your erection to fit your feet in cute shoes. Your feet are just about the same size as his, if only a little wider; his shoes fit you, mostly, though they feel strange. They hug each foot, almost as if they conform to the contour of your arch, squeezing uncomfortably. Dave decides on a sweet pair, classic black, polished. When you stand, you grimace. Why do women wear these? Why does Dave wear these? Why would anybody wear these?

“Oh, yes,” Dave comments, eyeing you with equal parts scrutiny and delight. He turns back to the closet and you wobble after him. “This will do more than nicely.” In his hands is a leather underbust, black with aubergine stitching. Simple, but elegant.

Dave moves you this way and that, positioning you in whatever ways make it easy to do with you as he pleases. He makes you hold onto the bedpost while he ties you up inside his sinister contraption of leather and lace; the way it constricts you as menacing as it is erotic. Dave nips at your jaw as he finishes lacing you up.

“Look at you,” he growls, turning you around to face his big, mirrored closet doors.

The first thing you notice is the look on your face. Your eyes, bereft of their usual tinted armor, are wide with the newness of this experience. You’re flushed from the chest up, and your skin shines with nervous sweat. The cinch in your waist isn’t nearly as dramatic as it is in Dave’s, but then, you’re broader than he is.

Dave reaches around and strokes your cock and the shock of seeing it reflected at you courses through you, raising your skin. You actually yell aloud.

“You look so damn good,” he says smugly, curling his fingers around you, pumping you too gently. “Not as good as me, of course. But damn good.” He takes his other hand and winds it around your throat, threatening to squeeze before raking his nails over your bare chest. “You haven’t earned your stockings yet,” he mourns, “and I’d be crazy to cover this up.” For emphasis, he tightens his grip around you, and you will never forgive yourself for the sound that comes out of your mouth.

Dave manhandles you, forces you back with his weight -- towering above you in heels, no less — and your balance is taken from you, leaving you flat on your back on the bed. Your legs hang over the edge like lead, useless, and you watch your older brother crawl between your thighs. He kisses and nuzzles and bites, murmurs your name against your own skin like the disgraceful secret it is. You whimper while he sucks on the soft seam between body and leg, as he licks a wet, sloppy trail over your smooth navel.

“You wax, now?” he grins.

“Shut up.”

“No, I like it.” He forces his arms under you and presses his stubbly cheek to your stomach. “I love it.”

You whine when he finally brushes his lips along your dick, applying maddeningly light pressure, just kisses. You squirm and you buck and you even accidentally kick Dave in the arm. That’s what breaks the camel’s back, and he retreats.

“No! Wait!”

An apology is already on your lips but Dave hushes you sternly. He ambles leisurely around the bed to his nightstand and hums out of key while rummaging through it. You wonder what punishment he will pull from his drawer of tricks. He does not let you see, holds both hands behind his back, tucks it away, beneath his pillows. And you know better than to go look.

Dave climbs onto the bed behind you and then grabs your wrists, tightly. He hauls you up the sheets and before you can give even an undignified squawk, he has you cuffed to his iron headboard. Then, there’s the whisper of soft leather as his favorite toy slithers along your skin. The crop is whipped across one of your thighs and you hiss through clenched teeth.

“I want you to fuck me,” he tells you informatively, as if giving you your chores for the week. “But first, I need foreplay. And since you couldn’t be bothered to behave, I’ll just have to do it myself.”

“If you want something done right,” you spit sarcastically.

Dave brings the crop down harshly and this time, you cry out. “Don’t mince words with me, kid.” He bends over you and tenderly kisses the injury left behind. “I’m the professional, here.”

You are sorely tempted to say ‘World’s oldest’ but your soreness in the wake of the crop is much more convincing. Besides, Dave is crawling over you, now, and you have the pleasure of seeing his bare ass. He sighs and begins sucking too lightly on the end of your cock, teasing you with his lips and tongue, teasing himself with the crop.

“Dave, Dave _please_ —”

“Do I need to gag you, too?”

That shuts you up. So you bite your tongue — at times, literally — while Dave takes his sweet time working you over, sucking as he pleases, smacking his own ass with his crop and moaning around you, making you moan. And the worst of it is how you can see all of this in those stupid, superfluous mirrors.

Something cool bumps into your skin and your eyes focus long enough to realize it’s a bottle of lube. And, oh, that’s Dave easing himself open, that’s Dave pushing back onto his own fingers while he sucks your dick — better and better all the time.

You fight your restraints, rattling the chains. “Dave! I want to —!” You gasp, startled, as he smacks you in the leg with his crop. “Let me!” You’re actually yelling.

He turns over and frowns at you, his lips wet. “Nah, you lost your privileges, man.”

And there is no arguing with Dave right now. You can argue about who gets the last slice of pizza or about who has jurisdiction over the television remote and you can always argue about who has the last word. But this is one fight that was already over before it began. So, chained to the headboard, you watch in agony as Dave plays with himself, listen as his soft, deliberate whines thrive, becoming unruly growls, like he’s daring you. You couldn’t break these cuffs if you tried; they aren’t chintzy. Dave probably had you in mind when he bought these, and that only fans the fire.

He’s lying parallel to you now, and even as he starts sucking you off again, your eyes keep wavering from his pretty mouth to his prettier waist, to the boning of his corset, to the immaculate pattern of roses in lace. Your stomach turns, but not enough to ruin the mood.

When his weight disappears and a rush of air cools your skin, you’re touched with distress. But only for a moment. It doesn’t take long for Dave to crouch over you, grabbing your dick and guiding you into him. He takes things slowly; for all his cavalier projection, he isn’t as reckless as he’d like you — or anyone else — to believe. He bites his lip and groans in impatience and pleasure while he pushes you in, only taking a few inches. Once he’s comfortable, Dave puts his weight forward, bracing his hands on either side of you. He breathes hot on your face while he moves over you, back and forth, back and forth. He squeezes you and it feels good, but not as good for you as it does for him, apparently. He’s not shy about his body and he knows how to get what he wants from you. He’s noisy — always has been. The tension in your gut expands with every moan, every throaty curse he whispers against your skin. You want to keep your eyes open so that you can watch him, so you can devour the sight of him: his thighs, powerful and straddling you; his skin all red with the effort of fucking himself on you; his fingers bunching in the sheets beside you.

He sinks a little further, as much as he can take, and leans back so he can ride you. He looks so fucking good, hair drenched in sweat, eyes scrunched up, mouth open in silent ecstasy. He reaches down and starts stroking his cock, and you can’t focus enough to comprehend what he’s saying, but you’re sure it’s disgusting. His rocking gets harder, more frenetic; he fixates on you, tells you how good you are, how hot you look, how amazing you feel. He clenches his teeth, then, and you know.

His come is warm on your skin, and you wince. It wasn’t unexpected, but it never ceases to shock you.

When he finishes, Dave climbs off of you slowly, and kicks off his heels. Your eyes follow him into his bathroom, where he wets a washcloth in tepid water; the cloth is pleasant on your skin when he comes back to clean you up. He’s gentle with you, more than he ever is with himself. He combs his fingers through your hair and undoes your corset, removing it from your body.

He clucks. “Well now I’ll have to have this dry cleaned. That should make an interesting headline.”

You don’t have the energy to reply. You do shake your cuffs, however, rattling the chains, reminding him.

“Oh don’t worry,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten.” But instead of releasing you, he pats you on the stomach, and then nudges your cock, which is still hard. “But you’re going to have to wait.”

“What.”

“I have something to do, first,” he calls, heading back into the bathroom. You listen, horrified, to the shower come on.

“Dave?” you call, alarmed. The only reply is his deliberately off-key singing. He showers for probably all of fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours. You go soft in the interim, and your wrists ache a little bit.

When he gets out, he goes to his bathroom mirror and preens in plain view. He allows you to see him fix his hair, pushing it back neatly with a comb and some paste. Then, he dresses in front of you, selecting one of his tailored suits.

“Which tie do you think, hm?” he holds out two ties, both thin: one black, and one the darkest red. You growl angrily at him. “Me too,” he says, selecting the red one. “It’ll compliment the wine nicely.”

“The wine?” you ask.

As if in answer to your question, the house phone goes off. The house phone only ever goes off when there are visitors. “One moment, brother dearest.” Dave dashes off and you strain your ears, listening to him speak invitingly. Is he having _guests_? _Now_?

When he returns, he has a large glass of water in his hand. He sets it beside you, its straw well within reach, if you crane your neck. He bolsters you with pillows and strokes your belly. “Now, get comfy. We’re going to get a bit buzzed and I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Dave.”

“Well I’m very sorry, Dirk,” he says coyly, “but it is a dinner party with alcohol. No minors allowed.”

Defeat washes over you like a boiling wave and you stew alone, cuffed to a bed, naked, while your brother goes out into the apartment to receive his guests.

It’s going to be a long night.

 


End file.
